Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

Lionel Asbo a very violent but not very successful young criminal is going about his morning duties in a London prison when he learns that he has just won 139,999,999.50 on the National Lottery. This is not necessarily good news for his ward and nephew, the orphaned Des Pepperdine, who still has reason to fear his uncles implacable vengeance.

Savage, funny, and mysteriously poignant, Lionel Asbo is a modern fairytale from one of the worlds great writers.

Martin Amis is the author of eleven previous novels, two collections of stories and seven works of non-fiction. He lives in London.

DEAR JENNAVEIEVE,

Im having an affair with an older woman. Shes a lady of some sophistication, and makes a refreshing change from the teen agers I know (like Alektra for example, or Chanel.) The sex is fantastic and I think Im in love. But theres one very serious complication and its this; shes my Gran!

Desmond Pepperdine (Desmond, Des, Desi), the author of this document, was fifteen and a half. And his handwriting, nowadays, was self-consciously elegant; the letters used to slope backward, but he patiently trained them to slope forward; and when everything was smoothly conjoined he started adding little flourishes (his e was positively ornate like a w turned on its side). Using the computer he now shared with his uncle, Des had given himself a course on calligraphy, among several other courses.

On the plus-side, the age-difference is surprisingly

He crossed that bit out, and resumed.

It started a fort-night ago when she rang up and said its the plumbing again love. And I said nan? Ill be right over. She lives in a granny flat under a house about a mile away and theres allways some thing wrong with its plumbing. Now Im no plumber but I learnd a bit from my Uncle George whose in the trade. I sorted it out for her and she said why not stay for a few drinks?

Calligraphy (and sociology, and anthropology, and psychology), but not yet punctuation. He was a good little speller, Des, but he knew how weak his punctuation was because he had just begun a course on it. And punctuation, he (quite rightly) intuited, was something of an art.

So we had a few Dubonnets which Im not used to, and she was giving me these funny looks. Shes all ways got the Beatles on and she was playing all the slow ones like Golden Slumbers, Yester-day, and Shes Leaving Home. Then gran says its so hot Ill just slip in to my night-dress. And she came back in a babydoll!

He was trying to give himself an education not at Squeers Free, recently singled out, he read in the Diston Gazette, as the worst school in England. But his understanding of the planet and the universe had inconceivable voids in it. He was repeatedly amazed by the tonnage of what he didnt know.

So we had a few more drinks, and I was noticing how well preserved she is. Shes taken good care of herself and shes really fit considering the life shes led. So after a few more drinks she says arent you frying alive in that blazer? Come over here handsome, and give us a cuddle! Well what could I do. She put her hand on my thigh and slid it up my shorts. Well Im only human arent I? The stereo was playing I Should Of Known Better but one thing lead to another, and it was mind blowing!

For instance, the only national newspaper Des had ever read was the Morning Lark. And Jennaveieve, his addressee, was its agony aunt or better say its ecstasy aunt. The page she presided over consisted of detailed accounts of perhaps wholly imaginary liaisons, and her replies consisted of a lewd pun followed by an exclamation mark. Desmonds tale was not imaginary.

Now you must believe me that this is all very out of character. It was never meant to be! Okay we live in Diston, where that sort of thing isnt much frownd up on. And, okay my Gran had a mischivous youth. But shes a respectable woman. The thing is shes got a big birthday coming up and I reckon its turnd her head. As for myself, my background is strict christian at least on my fathers side (Pentecostalist.) And you see Jennaveieve, Ive been very unhappy since my Mum, Cilla passed away three years ago. I cant find the words. I needed gentleness. And when gran touched me like that. Well.

Des had no intention of actually mailing his letter to Jennaveieve (whose partly naked body also adorned the page headed, not Ecstasy Aunt, but Agony Angel). He was writing it simply to ease his own mind. He imagined Jennaveieves dependably non-judgemental reply. Something like: At least youre having a Gran old time! Des wrote on.

Apart from the legal question which is worrying me sick, theres another huge problem. Her son, Lionel is my uncle, and hes like a father to me when hes not in prison. See hes an extremely violent criminal and if he finds out Im giving his Mum one, hell fucking kill me. Literally!

It might be argued that this was a grave underestimation of Lionels views on trespass and reprisal The immediate goal, for Des, was to master the apostrophe. After that, the arcana of the colon and the semicolon, the hyphen, the dash, the slash.

On the plus-side, the age-gap is not that big. See Granny Grace was an early starter, and fell pregnant when she was 12, just like my M

He heard the thick clunks of the locks, he looked with horror at his watch, he tried to stand upright on deadened legs and suddenly Lionel was there.

LIONEL WAS THERE, a great white shape, leaning on the open door with his brow pressed to his raised wrist, panting huskily, and giving off a faint grey steam in his purple singlet (the lift was misbehaving, and the flat was on the thirty-third floor but then again Lionel could give off steam while dozing in bed on a quiet afternoon). Under his other arm he was carrying a consignment of lager. Two dozen, covered in polythene. Brand: Cobra.

Youre back early, Uncle Li.

He held up a callused palm. They waited. In his outward appearance Lionel was brutally generic the slablike body, the full lump of the face, the tight-shaved crown with its tawny stubble. Out in the great world city, there were hundreds of thousands of young men who looked pretty much like Lionel Asbo. In certain lights and settings he resembled, some said, the England and Manchester United prodigy, striker Wayne Rooney: not exceptionally tall, and not fat, but exceptionally broad and exceptionally deep (Des saw his uncle every day and Lionel was always one size bigger than expected). He even had Rooneys gap-toothed smile. Well, the upper incisors were widely spaced, yet Lionel very seldom smiled. You only saw them when he sneered.

What you doing there with that pen? Whats that you writing? Guiss it.

Des thought fast. Uh, its about poetry, Uncle Li.

Poetry? said Lionel and started back.

Yeah. Poem called The Faerie Queene.

The what? I despair of you sometimes, Des. Why arent you out smashing windows? Its not healthy. Oh yeah, listen to this. You know that bloke I bashed up in the pub the other Friday? Mr Ross Knowles, if you please? Hes only pressing charges. Grassed me. Would you credit it.

Desmond knew how Lionel was likely to feel about such a move. One night last year Lionel came home to find Des on the black leatherette sofa, innocently slumped in front of